


If Night Shall Fall

by helens78, valuna



Category: Establishment RPF, Highlander RPF, James Bond (Movies) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, First Time, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-16
Updated: 2005-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78, https://archiveofourown.org/users/valuna/pseuds/valuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vampire named Petrus meets a warrior king named Brendan for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Warriors, Kings, and Myths

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the _Blood Histories_ universe, created by [telesilla](http://archiveofourown.org/users/telesilla) and [darkrose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrose). As originally written by telesilla:
> 
> We like the blood drinking and the immortality, but we're not too wild about the nighttime only thing or that bit with the mirrors. So our vampires are day walkers who survive on blood, can only be killed with fire (which includes nasties like having a bomb dropped on them) or a stake through the heart. While they're stronger and faster than mortals and have a small ability to mentally influence their prey, they don't turn into bats or any of that stuff. The general populace knows that they exist, although not all vampires are out. We're sure you see the metaphor here, so I'll be moving right along.

In Brendan's world there are warriors, kings, and myths. He's been a warrior all his life, a king for much of it, and now the only men with the power to scare him or hold more power over him are the ones he's only heard about through legend.

He's felt that way for nearly ten years now, through the even, unexciting days that mark most of the passage of time and through the days and weeks of war. His land's been safe from the Romans, safe from the men of the Continent, but now it's the barbarians from the North. _Barbarians_. It's a joke, really; his people have been the barbarians from the islands for as long as the men of the Continent have known they existed.

Brendan has often imagined that there could have been ambassadors, if necessary, to speak with the Romans, reason with them. He has no such beliefs about the Northerners. They are coming, one ship at a time so far, but that won't last. Soon it will be an entire navy, then land forces, and his way of life will be at an end. Soon. But not today.

Today his sword is fast and the cries of battle are loud among his men; the Northerners from the single ship that landed on the coast are dying, taking some of his men with them as is inevitable in war, but dying to a man. There's satisfaction in a fight well played, in the bloodlust that comes during battle, but Brendan's temper is more even than most, and he notices the stranger watching from the outskirts of the battle as he finishes driving the sword into the last Northerner standing.

Lucius Arminius Marci Nicomaus Petrus sits on his horse, watching the battle unfold. Or, rather, in honesty, watching the raven-haired warrior slash at blond invaders. Rome is behind him, a memory and he's making a new life, awakened from his long sleep and eager for human companionship. He descends the hill as the fighting ends, the defeated retreating as they can, and as he nears the unknown Celtic, he easily jumps off his horse, landing in front of the unknown warrior. He stretches out his hands in peaceful gesture. "You fought well today, my prince," he says, giving title where he knows not if it exists. "You should be proud."

Brendan looks the new arrival over, putting up a hand to keep the rest of his men back. A compliment at the end of battle does not generally herald an attack, but better to be cautious. "I do what's needed," he says. He tilts his head back, trying to place the traces of accent on this new man's voice; it's something he's never heard before. "My name is Brendan, stranger. What's your business here?"

He considers which name to offer. _I am no longer the sum of my names. This is not Rome._ "There is more, but I think Petrus will do." The words ease off his tongue in fluid Gaelic, a natural ability, picking up languages as if they were heather under his feet. "My business is you, friend warrior Brendan. Our enemies are the same now, the heathens from the North. You will fight with me." He leaves no inflection for question. It is an assumption he makes, one Petrus knows will bear fruit.

Brendan grunts in surprise. "You've seen what I can do on a field," he acknowledges. His men are growing closer, slowly but steadily. "What have you to offer?"

"The arm of an unconquerable ally," Petrus says with authority, no boast in his voice. He looks around at the gathering men. He is not afraid of them knowing what he is. Humans fear his kind more than he theirs. And rightly so. However, he would make his offers in private, to make Brendan understand better what their alliance would yield. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to share the victory meal with me," he smiles thinly, "and we could talk at our leisure, in more secure surroundings."

Brendan's eyes narrow as he takes in Petrus, the look and the feel of the man. Neither king nor commoner, he is something else entirely, and Brendan works over the meaning of his words in his mind. _The arm of an unconquerable ally,_ he thinks. And then, blinking, _...one of the Ageless?_

He glances around, barks a few short orders to his men and nods to Petrus again, and as the men of the field begin stripping bodies bare and giving themselves the spoils of war, Brendan steps in close. "Secure surroundings," he agrees, lips curling up at the phrasing. _How can any surroundings provide security against one of the Ageless?_

Something in Brendan's words, their inflection, the way he stares makes Petrus smile broader with the human's obvious recognition of his kind. He wishes the stories were true, that he could put himself into others' minds. He would caress this one's thoughts with longing, soothe with gentle touches.

"You have nothing to fear from me," Petrus says quietly, reaching forward and touching Brendan's shoulder. "I will never be _your_ enemy."

Under ordinary circumstances, Brendan would jerk away, then point out to any stranger that uninvited touches can have unintended consequences. _But if this man's a blooddrinker, antagonizing him won't get me anywhere._ Brendan nods -- not willing to trust Petrus yet, but willing to accept his statement at face value. For now.

**************************************

Dinner's nearly over and the meal's passed casually, Petrus making conversation about Rome, answering the chieftain's questions, even though it has been more than a century since he was there, walking her streets properly. The food is pleasant, the drink tolerable, although Petrus has need for neither.

"Your hospitality is quite generous, Brendan," he says, finishing off a sweet bread. "Your surroundings much more comfortable than I anticipated. This is not your home, though. I don't feel _your_ essence in this place."

"I haven't had a _home_ in--" Brendan pauses, shakes his head. "Listen to me. Rambling like a fool. I'd blame the wine for it, but I haven't had enough." His tongue's been loose all evening, comfort in Petrus's presence growing minute by minute. This isn't like him. Or hasn't been for a decade. "You're right," he finishes quietly. "It's not my home."

"There is no need to blame the wine. Or anything else. I find the company excellent and the conversation enjoyable." Petrus settles back against a cushion. "Your home? You no longer have one?" He can identify with that, a vampire moving too often it seemed and never settling. And no one to share the nights with, the long days that bleed one into another.

Brendan settles back as well, but it's more to put another few inches of distance between them than to improve his comfort. The company _is_ excellent. That's the trouble. Even with men he considers peers he isn't usually this at ease, let alone with a man whose people are older than time and, some say, older than Death itself.

But Petrus has asked a question, and Brendan looks for an answer that will be true and satisfactory and yet will not give away more than he cares to. "I am widowed," he explains carefully, "and have not tried to make a home for myself since my wife's death."

"That is logical, not to make new home after one has been destroyed. Especially from the death of a loved one." Petrus is comfortable, more than he has been with a human in a long time. It is an easy conversation between them. "Your wife, did she give you children before she died?" _Or do you have need for immortality?_

Brendan looks away. Surely that's too personal a question for this conversation; he doesn't want to answer. And yet he finds himself answering anyway, words sliding out of him one after another: "A year we tried," he murmurs, "but after that we agreed that there was no purpose to our sharing a bed." _And I was alone._

_No purpose to our sharing a bed._ The words echo in Petrus's ears, coil into his mind. "You have been alone. I understand that. Too well." He's talking, voice low and nearly a whisper. "The ache when the stars are too bright and the heavens too close, when there's no comfort to be found in an empty bed."

Petrus has felt that way too long. Never loved. Never felt the sting of another human's death, yearned so intensely for the touch of another. He moves, putting himself beside Brendan, and touches his chin, tilting his head up until he can find himself reflected in the blue shards of Brendan's soul. "There is no shame in being lonely. Only in not taking comfort in the closeness of others."

Brendan pushes himself up and takes a step away. "You're misreading me," he says, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head.

"As I said before, Brendan, you have _nothing_ to fear from me. I would take nothing that you would not give freely." Petrus sinks back into the cushions, never once breaking his gaze with Brendan's eyes. He can wait, bide his time until the human is ready. "If I misread you, I apologize. I have offended a gracious host."

"I'm not offended," Brendan says immediately. _Only unsettled, and nervous, and afraid -- you could have my blood at any moment, why are we talking like this?_ "But I wonder what you'll ask in return for your aid," he says at last.

"Exactly as I have said. _Nothing_ more than you are willing to give, Brendan," Peter says slowly, taking in and letting out the breaths. He is intrigued, as it has become obvious the human knows what he is. "You are not concerned that I am an ancient, one of the Ageless?" he asks after a long pause. "It seems not to give you pause at all. I find that remarkable in a human. Your kind is usually so fragile and superstitious."

Brendan laughs, a soft snort of breath as he makes his way to the edge of the tent, draws his fingers down the leather barring the way to the outside world. "It does give me pause," he murmurs, "but superstitions should only be held to if they're useful. Having an ally against the Northerners is far more useful than fearing him because of who -- _what_ \-- he is."

"Superstition is a tricky endeavor. It holds our minds in check against the worst of our fears, yet if not put aside we never venture beyond our earliest confines, we never reach out and touch the impossible." Petrus pushes himself up, moves slowly over to where Brendan stands. "I _will_ be your ally against the Northmen, first and foremost." He touches the leather, runs a finger down it, brushing against Brendan's. "Set aside your superstition, explore the new world that is at your hand."

_This_ is a feeling Brendan is all too familiar with. He's felt its touch after battles, when he and his men have been in tents celebrating victory, and the thread of arousal that runs through the room is palpable. With his men he's always made his apologies and headed somewhere private for release, though offers have been made on various memorable occasions, and there was a sweet boy with blond hair whose tongue distracted Brendan for days afterward. "Set aside superstition," he says quietly. "And what else would you have me set aside, Petrus?"

"Everything but your desire, Brendan." Petrus runs his fingers over Brendan's hand. "I would have that, if you give it freely, for myself." He senses the desire, coursing in the human's veins, suppressed by society's mores. "Would you allow me the opportunity to show you a different life, one free from the constraints your world puts on men?"

"Would I allow it?" Brendan asks, moving his hand underneath Petrus's, exhaling as the brush of skin against skin makes his eyes close. "I've never considered it before." He's silent for a while, struggling with words. "I've never been asked this way before." Another short pause while he works his way through an answer that sends a twist into his chest and nearly makes his voice shake. "I remember how to decline. I can't think of why I'd want to."

"I am honored, then." Petrus casually moves his other hand up to the back of Brendan's neck. "I have never _asked_ for it before. The first of many exceptions I anticipate making for you." He leans in, slowly brushing his lips over Brendan's, not wanting to frighten the human. He listens, picking up the cues as Brendan's heart beats faster, and grips at the other's neck gently. "You need never remember the word _no_ again."

"Do you want--" Brendan reaches out, half-impulse half-twitch, and gets a hand on Petrus's hip. "Do you want to..." Words are very quickly failing him, between lips and hands and Petrus's confident grip on his skin. "Do you need to drink first?" he asks, barely above a whisper, not at all sure what he's gotten himself into by admitting he doesn't want to say _no_. And the idea of giving Petrus his blood is terrifying. But standing so close to him is dizzying in another way entirely, and he doesn't know if he wants to say _no_ to Petrus's teeth, either.

"Want and need are a league apart, my friend." Petrus twines his fingers through Brendan's, holding the man steady. "Yes, I want to taste your blood. No, I do not need it." He pauses, thinking on how long it has been since he fed, on those in camp who would not even notice his taking of nourishment. "I can sustain myself for longer than this on what would fill your wine cup." His fingers flex and shift against Brendan's neck, rubbing softly, his voice low and haunting. Petrus knows he has no true mesmeric hold over the human. It is not within the vampire's power, save for the charisma one has innately. "However, in taking pleasure of your body, I would prefer to indulge in flesh _and_ blood."

"I... please," Brendan says, louder than he means to; it's as if his voice offers him the choice of speaking too softly to be heard or loud enough he can't escape his own meaning. He leans forward, into Petrus's grip, not sure whether he's trying to offer his lips or his throat, only wanting to be _taken_.

Petrus chooses the lips, brushing his own across Brendan's, tongue swabbing away the remnants of fermented grape. "Delicious," he murmurs, still holding Brendan's neck, and takes a second kiss, this one more demanding, tongue seeking egress from parting lips. "Let me," he breathes out.

There've been kisses with lasses over the years. Few since his wife's death, though, and none that made him look for more -- harder --faster -- _now_, the way he's after Petrus's mouth. Brendan leans forward, parts his lips and doesn't let himself _think_. It's insane, all of it. A visitor from the east. One of the ageless, the blooddrinkers. Another man. Wanting him. Thinking's the last thing Brendan wants to do, when there's so much here to _feel_.

_Don't think, just act._ Petrus knows he cannot influence the human's thoughts, but he thinks it anyway, wishes for Brendan to just respond, and is happily rewarded. The human's lips part and the vampire claims his new lover. It has been too long since he felt the warmth of a mortal kiss, the chill it coils down his spine. Long fingers dance over Brendan's neck, gingerly pressing in and sliding around, thumb tracing the pulse point while Petrus's free hand searches for the folds of Brendan's tunic, separating the fabric, slipping in along warm flesh.

"Oh, G--" Brendan chokes off the oath before he can give voice to it. "Please," he whispers again; it's a prayer he feels he can make, one to both his ageless and to himself, praying for _more_. His hands move to Petrus's shirt, fingers catching and tangling into his sleeves, and he holds his breath as he feels Petrus's hands on him. _His_ hands. _His_ hands on bare flesh -- and Brendan's done with thinking about what that means, what that makes him. _Just feel. Just act._

_Please._ A single word holds such promise and such fear. Petrus pulls back and brushes his lips over Brendan's mouth. "Could I entice you back to the pillows, m'lord?" he whispers. "Where we can both be comfortable." He steps back, his hands pulling Brendan's body with him. "No one will disturb us. Your men are falling asleep, and you should also."

"The last thing I want right now is sleep," Brendan breathes, following Petrus and sinking back into the pillows again. "I'm -- I _want_ this," he says, eyes flicking down and away from Petrus's; he can't keep their gazes locked. "I don't know why -- it doesn't matter why -- but I want this."

"And you shall have _this_." Petrus pushes apart the fabric of Brendan's clothes as he lays him back into the pillows. "But you are human and you _will_ fall into sleep as the arousal is sated, your body pleasured." He runs his hands over the warm flesh, undressing his new lover more with each stroke of his fingers. Petrus stretches up, putting lips to Brendan's throat, kissing softly and then licking over the strong artery.

"I hope this isn't simply your way of seeing I get a full night's rest after a battle," Brendan teases. He's hesitant as he starts touching Petrus, but the hesitance wears off with every stroke of his hands down Petrus's arms, his back, the glide up his back so Brendan's fingers can tangle in his hair. "You feel so warm," he murmurs. "I didn't expect you to feel so warm."

Petrus laughs at Brendan's teasing. He hasn't felt so comfortable with a mortal in a long time. If ever. "I am warm because blood flows in my veins," he whispers, kissing Brendan's bared shoulder. "I like your touches. It has been too long since I felt mortal hands." He tilts his head down, tugging at the fingers laced in his hair. "Explore, my human, as much as you desire."

"I haven't..." Brendan draws both hands to the sides of Petrus's face, cupping his cheeks for a moment. "I've never touched another man this way," he murmurs. "But then you're not quite _man_, are you...?" He glances down the length of Petrus's body, slides his hands down his sides, backs of his fingers running over skin that seems little different from his own. Petrus _feels_ like flesh and blood, and if he's more than that as well, it doesn't mean he doesn't feel things the way a human does. Or Brendan hopes that's the case; he wants to be able to please this man, this ageless one. _My human_, he thinks, wondering if the phrase is meant as compliment or claim or both.

"I am as much man as you, Brendan." Petrus kisses his human again, sucking lightly at the flesh that is his to possess. His alone. His forever, if Brendan would wish it. It is _both_ claim and compliment. He moves slowly, not wanting to frighten Brendan, and draws his hand down to clasp Brendan's fingers, guide them over the loosening clothes to press against his erection. "I am flesh _and_ blood. Ageless, yes, but in many ways nothing more than a man who very much desires the body he feels stretched beneath him."

"Show me," Brendan breathes. "Show me what you want to take from me."

"Show you." Petrus rubs Brendan's hand down, savours the coil of pleasure that ripples out from the touch. "Of course, I will guide you every step of the way." He kneels up, between Brendan's legs, pushing them apart more as he works his fingers through the soft folds of fabric until they're touching flesh. _Hard and wanting._ Petrus strokes lightly over Brendan's stomach, trailing his finger down through the black wispy hair and onto his lover's cock. He bends his head down and blows out a breath across its tip, then a quick second one down its length.

"This is what I want. You. Laid open for our pleasure."

It isn't the first time he's had a lover's breath across his cock. But those were women, all willing but all hesitant, and this is another man, one who knows exactly what he wants and how to get it. And Brendan can't decide whether to lean up and help, or to lay back and savor what he's getting. "Please," he breathes, finally spreading his legs wider, arching his hips just a little as he tries to get Petrus's lips on his cock. "_More_."

"So eager a lover," Petrus whispers, putting his lips to cock, brushing a kiss over the ridge of skin at its head. He slides his hand between Brendan's spreading legs and rubs his fingers over the heavy sacs, stretching his thumb down to that tight skin behind them. He suspects none of the human's lovers have taken this amount of care with him.

He's right; this is all new to Brendan, and it's making him throw his head back and groan. "_Please._" He tries to take a full breath, and doesn't quite manage it. "Don't stop..."

"Stop?" Petrus laughs, blowing out more air over Brendan's cock, feeling it stiffen under his touch. "I have no intentions of ceasing my activities." He slips his finger farther along the rough skin till he's tracing his nail lightly around the tight ring of muscle. He presses just a bit harder and puts lips to cock again, this time opening his mouth and taking the tip through his teeth. _Keep the fangs in. For the moment._ And he sucks gently.

"_Oh_," Brendan breathes. Warm -- easy -- almost not what he expected, and he reaches down to card his fingers through Petrus's hair, wondering how to ask for more.

There's something about that moment when another man realizes how good it feels to be touched by your own, by someone whose hand understands the intricacies of the body. Petrus takes in Brendan's cock slowly, gliding his tongue underneath to press against the hard vein there. There is no rush. They have all night. And much longer. And Petrus _wants_ to hear Brendan begging for more, putting voice to that need, before the sun rises.

"Oh -- _please_ \-- so good," Brendan gasps. His hips do a soft, unsteady roll, moving his cock up into Petrus's mouth. "Please."

_And it will get so much better, my human._ Petrus shifts his weight and takes Brendan's full length in his mouth. The cock is long and tickles the back of Petrus's throat easily. He presses his tongue along the underside and swallows more as he gently works his finger just to the inner edge of the entrance he's been teasing.

Brendan's not a fool; he knows what that finger's there for. He knows he'll need to open for Petrus in the end. He keeps himself from flinching away and tries to hold still, mouth open, throat arched, breathing softly.

Petrus moves his finger slowly, just a wriggle, not even pressing in farther. The human needs to adjust, he knows, and there's all the time in the world to take him properly. It's just an added sensation, something to overlay the swirl of Petrus's tongue around Brendan's cock, the friction as Petrus hollows his cheeks and sucks, lightly at first and then harder as the minutes pass. He doesn't anticipate his human lasting long.

"Do you want me to -- should I -- oh, _please_," Brendan pants, arching up into Petrus's mouth, feeling that warmth claim him over and over. "Please, I can't last, I need -- _please_..."

_Then let go._ He can feel Brendan's release building, the tightness of the balls and the clenching of flesh around his fingertip. Petrus opens wider, letting the cock's tip jerk against the roof of his mouth, as he braces for it. _Come, my human. Spend yourself in me. And then I will drink from you._

It's too much. It's all too much, and Brendan nearly arches off the pillows, gasping as his cock jerks, as his release floods Petrus's mouth and Brendan's eyes snap open, searching blindly for contact with -- his ageless? his lover? The only word in Brendan's thoughts now is _yours_. It's the only thought that matters.

It's easy for Petrus to take Brendan, to swallow everything he has to offer, savouring the off-sweetness of his seed. He sucks until his lover is spent and then pulls back, settling his hands once again to Brendan's sides. He licks over the cock, cleaning it and letting his fangs down to graze over the flesh at its base. Petrus swipes his tongue over the spilt blood and stretches himself up over Brendan's body.

"You taste of leather and the remains of the morning fire," he whispers. "I would taste you more, if you would allow." He knows he doesn't _have_ to ask permission, but he wants to hear Brendan says he's allowed to take it, the blood, the lifeforce. "A very little, my human."

It seems impossible that Brendan could ache for something while he's still recovering from his climax. But the words -- and the hint of fangs -- make him shiver, and he leans up, clutches at Petrus's shoulders. "What must I do?"

"Lie still," Petrus whispers, his lips near Brendan's throat. He licks over the pulse point there, the strongest one, feeling the blood sing up to his tongue. "It will hurt but for a moment, less than the point of a sword grazing your arm."

Right now Brendan doesn't think it's going to _hurt_, as such, at all. He's so hungry for it he can hardly breathe. Certainly can't think straight. And he arches up further, moaning softly. "Please," he whispers. "_Please._ Take me. Let me bleed for you."

Carefully, Petrus lets his fangs rake over the skin. A light scratch. _Bleed for you._ Beautiful words and such an offering. He kisses Brendan's throat once more and then bites, sharply pushing his fangs through, slowly and steadily until he clamps his mouth down over the wound and begins to draw out the blood.

For a moment, Brendan's body has him wanting to cry out -- and then the sensation gives way to a feeling of _connection_, a sensation he's never had before, warm and slow and working its way through him. He can feel the blood filling Petrus's mouth with every pulse of his heartbeat, and it makes him feel as if he's nearly glowing inside, loose and easy, entire body hazy and hot and grateful.

_Not much. Just a goblet's worth._ Petrus sucks until he feels Brendan's heart skip a beat, counting the seconds he knows exist between the pleasant sensation caressing Brendan's body and that moment of panic when human fragility takes hold and he stops a heartbeat before that, pulling off and licking over the wound. "Yes, the morning fire's ashes," he says, sealing the tiny prick marks with his kiss. "Tended with care and left to smolder itself out."

"_Ah..._" Brendan's feeling much too content to move very far. He reaches up for Petrus, or tries, but his fingers don't move the way he expects them to, and he ends up simply sliding the backs of his fingers down Petrus's arm. "Want -- _need_ \-- that was..." He exhales softly. "What more can I give you?"

"I am content for the moment, my dear human," Petrus whispers, brushing kisses over Brendan's throat, then jaw and finally lips. He puts his hand to Brendan's temple, rubs a small circle there as he talks. "You must sleep. And when you awaken, we will talk more of what you can give me."

Sleep sounds good -- better than serving, and somewhere in the back of Brendan's mind he'll wonder what happened to him that it was even a question. He nods, reaching up to catch Petrus's hand. "Thank you," he whispers. "For everything."

"I have not even begun to give you everything, Brendan," Petrus murmurs, his fingers still moving in circles, his voice dropping to consciously lull the human into sleep. "But we have lifetimes for that."

_Lifetimes._ It occurs to Brendan to wonder what that means --even occurs to him to ask. But later. In the morning. Sleep... sounds very, very good...


	2. In The Company Of Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petrus and Brendan spend their first early morning together.

There's someone in Brendan's bed this morning.

Brendan blinks his eyes open as he realizes where he is and what he's done. He's not anything resembling awake yet; he's need and hunger and _want_, and that's all so far. More -- thoughts, in particular -- are going to have to wait until he's been up a few hours.

In the past, he's taken care of this sort of sleepy arousal with his hand. Here, now, with someone in his bed, he's got other alternatives, and he tugs the blanket aside and begins a long climb up Petrus's body, settling his thighs on either side of Petrus's hips as he brushes kisses up his new lover's chest.

Petrus is barely stirring, content to linger in the half-sleep of dreaming for hours, well until the sun has started its course through the sky. His dreams, though, are lucid and the body pressing against him is not demon of his imagination, but flesh and blood.

_Brendan._

He doesn't open his eyes, but moves his hands and quickly finds warm skin under his fingers. "Were you going to awaken me, Brendan? Or should I just lull myself back into Morpheus's arms and think you a dream?"

"Are you awake now?" Brendan asks. His hips press down, his erection sliding against Petrus's thigh. "Are you hungry?"

"Portions of me are _very_ awake, Brendan," Petrus says, lips smiling and eyes slowly hinting at greeting the morning. "I hunger. Were you offering to break the night's fast?"

Brendan leans down -- doing this is so much easier than thinking about it. He breathes out, warm and soft against Petrus's neck, and ever-so-gently scrapes his teeth over his new lover's skin. "Yes," he whispers.

"You do not know," Petrus starts, fingers digging into Brendan's legs as the scrapes seem to cut through to muscle and blood, and he knows it's his imagination, desire and need. "I hunger for many things this morning. Flesh _and_ blood."

"I _do_ know," Brendan whispers, words barely audible even to himself. "Show me how to give myself to you."

"Give yourself to me. You've already done that. Last night." Petrus's smile is thin, but deep. "I tasted of you. You would know how to pleasure me? Is that what you ask?" He cants his hips up, his erection pressing against Brendan's body. "Take me into your flesh while I feast on your blood."

Brendan's finally starting to come awake, and the reality of what he's offering is sinking in with the imprint of Petrus's body beneath his own. He needs a breath to steady himself, but his eyes are certain. "Yes," he says softly. "Please. Body. Blood." _Yours._ And he wonders just what sort of bargain he's entered into by accepting help from one of the ageless. Only for an instant, though, before another rub of skin against skin, cock against thigh, has him forgetting everything except the man underneath him.

"You will need to move, Brendan," Petrus whispers. He runs his hands over his lover's thighs. "Retrieve the oil. I will not take you unprepared." _Not until you are ready for that, perhaps not even until you are of my blood._

"Oh--" Brendan grins at his own eagerness, shaking his head. "Of course." He slides away from Petrus, digging through a pack for the oil he and his men use for muscle aches. _Well, I'm certainly aching,_ he thinks, heading back to Petrus and kneeling at the edge of the blankets. It seems a perfectly natural position to take, and it gives him a good vantage point to run his eyes over Petrus's body, half-obscured by sheets. It's the first time he's looked at another man this way, and all the nervousness that went along with feeling _this_ way for another man last night is dissipating.

Petrus watches Brendan's eyes rake over him, explore like a scout in new territory, mapping it out carefully. "We are in no hurry, Brendan," he says quietly, reaching over and taking Brendan's hand, moving it onto his stomach and gliding it over the rippled flesh down into the crease of his groin. "Explore this new land you've conquered. Take pleasure in it."

Brendan knows what it is to conquer. What it feels like to surrender. This has felt more like the rocky path of finding truce, but he's not turning down the offer to take pleasure in what's under his hands. He runs both hands down Petrus's body, feeling warm skin and hard muscle under his fingers, and he wonders what all that skin tastes like. _What it would be like doing to him what he did to me last night._ Brendan bends his head down, rubs morning stubble against the soft skin of Petrus's stomach.

"Taste me," Petrus says softly, reading Brendan's mind without having the power. He can remember his first, how a man's body felt strange under his fingers, rougher and tempting. He rubs his fingers over the back of Brendan's neck. There is no pushing, nothing more than a touch, reassuring, encouraging. "I like the feel of your face there, how the stubble rubs, wakens."

\Brendan moans quietly, barely more than a breath, and turns his face so he can press his lips to the warm skin just below Petrus's navel. He gives the flesh a soft, testing lick, tasting morning sweat and the barest hint of arousal, and the flavor is sharper, strong on a man somehow than it would be on a woman. His cock pulses between his legs, and he wraps a hand around it and squeezes, just a bit, to ease the ache.

It makes him wonder if Petrus is aching yet, and the move of his hand is confident as it glides up Petrus's thigh and fingers wrap around new lover's cock. This much, touching, he knows how to do, and he gives Petrus's cock a long stroke as he takes a soft nip at Petrus's skin.

"No, Brendan, do not touch yourself." Petrus's words are quietly harsh, a reprimand without the sting. "I want you aching for my touch." He moans at the nip of teeth on flesh. _Oh, yes, this one will be mine. Completely._ His hand moves in small circles over Brendan's neck, nudging with each circle outward.

Taking his hand away from his cock isn't easy -- certainly isn't Brendan's first instinct -- but he obeys all the same, bringing his hand up and resting it on Petrus's hip instead. His licks bring him lower, along with the soft nudging, and then he's a breath away from the head of Petrus's cock, from licking his way under the foreskin and doing all the things that have been done to him over the years, things he's never even imagined doing with another man--

_\--well,_ he interrupts himself, _maybe a bit of imagining..._

But his tongue is almost shy when it darts out to take up a taste of Petrus's skin, and he glances up the length of his body to make sure he isn't doing anything wrong. Another lick, then, longer this time, with his eyes locked on Petrus's.

"You're doing exceptionally well, Brendan. Don't be afraid to do what you _think_ you want," Petrus says, eyes hooded as he moans under the careful swipe of Brendan's tongue. Petrus wants to reach down, touch, caress, but he wants more to take it in, see what Brendan will offer of his own accord.

"Lips and tongue and teeth, Brendan," he murmurs.

_And teeth?_ Brendan slides his lips over the head of Petrus's cock, and he has the courage to slide his tongue around it, caressing the foreskin with the tip of his tongue, but teeth? He wonders what that would feel like. _What it would feel like if it were his -- fangs -- on me..._

The thought's enough to cure him of his hesitance, and he gives a light scrape of teeth as he slides his mouth off Petrus's cock.

"Yes," Petrus hisses at the slight scrape. Not fangs. Human teeth. Canines that would have to tear at his flesh to find the sustenance he can call forth with a single sharp strike. He snarls his hand in hair, pushes his lover's head down with a gentle firmness. "More."

More is easy now -- the word sends Brendan down, awkward and choking but determined as he sucks Petrus's length down his throat. _More._ Brendan suspects that tone of voice could convince him to do anything, and while superstition would hold that it's about supernatural powers the ageless have over mortals, he knows himself well enough to know better. _It's because I want this. Him. Because I want him._

Human touch, Brendan's fingers ghosting his flesh. Human breath, a lover's warm mouth on his cock. Petrus aches with desire, need, the urge to push up, insinuate himself deeper into that willing throat. Human, he reminds himself, not vampire, and then as Brendan opens his mouth wider, Petrus forgets all the logic he has concerning humans and brings his hips off the bedcovers, holding Brendan's head steady.

"That's good, my human," he purrs, voice low and commanding. "Take all of it. Leave nothing untasted."

Brendan has enough breath and space to let out one more soft moan before his head sinks low enough to cut off sound. He stretches out between Petrus's legs, hips pressing down hard into the bedcovers. _Nothing untasted._ He's not sure what's more arousing: the taste, or the way his head's being held still.

The arousal is immediate, Petrus's cock stiffening in Brendan's throat, the pressure he's exerting on his lover's head intensifying it by legions. He really has to do little to hold the head steady, though, and he wonders if it is truly vampiric strength or human desire that locks Brendan's head in place. Slowly, he untangles his fingers, ghosting them through the black strands, testing the theory that already, even after just a night, Petrus has more control over _this_ human than anyone he's ever touched.

Brendan does pull back, the slickness left over from his mouth making the slide out easier, and the slide back down easier still. He's still not at all sure what he's doing; he's certain he's going to get something wrong. But his mouth is eager and hot, and every stroke down tastes better than the last.

For one not familiar with the intricacies of tasting a lover, Brendan is doing exceptionally well, Petrus thinks. He pushes a bit more, edging against what he knows a human can take, smiling and edging his fang against his lip when Brendan takes it all, again and again. "You please me greatly," Petrus whispers, the morning air still except for the slight rustle of heavy drapery over the room's opening. He has no worry, though. No one will disturb them. No other human in the camp would dare.

Pride's a hot burst of feeling in Brendan's chest, a sensation that moves down through his gut and centers in his cock, leaving him even more aroused for the praise. He tries a slow lick, firm pressure with his tongue as he moves up, still imagining Petrus's fangs on him, wondering where he'll want to bite this time.

It is excruciating, the anticipation of having the human's blood in his mouth again, washing his throat, of waiting until that moment when his own body is pouring out. Too much. "There, Brendan, that is perfect." Brendan's ragged licks tug Petrus to the edge, nudge him over, and he can feel his cock leaking against the roof of Brendan's mouth. "A moment, my love, little more." A warning of what is imminent, Petrus holding back by sheer desire to have Brendan's mouth fully on him again before he comes.

And Brendan responds, sliding his mouth down, taking Petrus's cock as deep as he can, his own cock aching, desperate for release, but he's been told not to touch himself and he won't -- _can't_ \-- can't imagine disobeying an order now.

No touching. Not yet. Petrus wants that pleasure to himself. After this. After the shiver that wracks his body, burns him with its chill. He's coming, cock deep in Brendan's throat, pushing forward, demanding as much of the human as he can take. Petrus is near silent, whimpered moan escaping his lips at the last second before he pulls back, out of Brendan's mouth. "Come up here, Brendan," he whispers, reaching out and tugging at Brendan's upper arms, pulling him up until Petrus's fingers can stretch, rub over the swollen, aching cock. "You want release, sweet human?"

"Yes, _please_," Brendan moans, thrusting into Petrus's hand. "Please, let me -- let me give you that -- and my blood, please, your teeth, bite me."

"Yes, your blood." Petrus kisses Brendan's neck, licks over the right spot, slides the edge of his fang along the wet streak. "Give me everything." Then he bites. A swift, steady motion, fangs sinking into flesh while he hand makes a fist around Brendan's cock, grasping tightly as he strokes down its length toward the head.

_Everything._ There's no chance Brendan could hold anything back, not the ragged scream or the hard pulse of come that streaks over Petrus's wrist or the way his whole body feels connected to Petrus's, incredible pleasure washing over him with the flow of his blood into Petrus's mouth. "_Ohhh_..."

At the particular moment of release, when the body is so focused on hedone, the temperament of sensuous pleasure, the blood is filled with that the ancients called the elixir of life. Petrus has never understood the mechanics of it, but there is a quintessential quality that cannot be denied -- the blood never tastes quite as pure as it does at that moment. Petrus drinks until he can feel Brendan's heart beat in the blood under his tongue, stops at that last second, before he takes too much.

It could be minutes or hours or days. Brendan floats, drifts on sensation, feels filled with more pleasure than he's known in the rest of his lifetime combined. _This is why they're so dangerous_, he thinks, and it doesn't matter.

Petrus licks over the wound, sucking the last of the blood from around the cut. "Do not try to move. You will need rest." He slides his hands around Brendan's body, pulling him in close. "I will call for a servant, get you some drink."

"Servant," Brendan says, grinning through his lethargy. "It's just my men," he murmurs, "no servants. But they'll bring you whatever you need."

"I forget." Petrus laughs, soft and throaty. "We are on the battlefield. Very well. I will have your men bring sustenance. When I have you home, servants will wait on you."

_When I have you home._ The words should startle, even worry. They will, when Brendan's up a little further. Not yet. Not for a while yet.

Home. It's far away. Or seems that way. Petrus doesn't remember when he last saw home -- at least not his real home -- and he can't help but wonder, looking down at Brendan, those eyes deep and distant, that maybe home isn't any farther away than the tent he's in, _this_ human.

_-end-_

**Author's Note:**

> This was cowritten with [Luna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/valuna), who shared her wonderful Peter Wingfield muse with me for it. Luna passed away in March 2010, and is greatly missed.


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